


It's not Acting when I'm with You

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Kinktober 2019, Mutual Pining, Mutual Pining But They Don't Know That, Post Canon - Aged Up Character(s), Post-Canon, Roleplay, Roommates, Theater - Freeform, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah, drama club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Yahaba never cared about theaters or plays before college, but, then again, he was never roommates with Shirabu Kenjirou before college either.In which Shirabu has actor's block, and Yahaba inspires him to keep trying in more ways than one.





	It's not Acting when I'm with You

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 20 - Prompt: Roleplay

Fumbling with the keys, Yahaba opens the door to find Shirabu laying on the floor. Papers lie scattered around him. Glaring intently at a carton of ice cream, Shirabu shoves an angry spoonful into his mouth.

The keys fall from Yahaba’s hand. “You got dumped.”

Shirabu scowls at him. “I’m not dating anyone, idiot. How the hell could I get dumped?”

Picking up his keys, Yahaba steps inside and toes off his shoes. “You got a better explanation for _this_?” He gestures at him and his dessert.

Shirabu opens his mouth to defend himself, but then he closes it, pulling the ice cream closer.

“Oh damn.” Yahaba kneels next to him. “Are you dying?” He reaches out hesitantly, as if trying to approach a wild animal, and Shirabu smacks his hand away.

“My throat hurts.”

“Are you sick? You’re not supposed to have ice cream when you’re sick.” A paper crinkles under his foot. Picking it up, he scans through a script for a play.

Shirabu sits up, curling his knees to his chest. “I’m fine.”

“Is this the new show you guys are doing?” Yahaba picks up the next page, titled with a scene change. A paper sticks to Shirabu’s back. Peeling it off, he finds the part that was missing between Scene 4 and Scene 5. He frowns. “Where’s the villain?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Realization hits him. Shirabu had played every villain since he joined drama club the year before, all the way from Maleficent of _Sleeping Beauty_ to Gaston of _Beauty and the Beast_, and even some of the harder to define villains like Macbeth and Sweeney Todd. A certain malicious aura overtook him on the stage. He could convince the entire audience not only that he was evil, but that they should support him for it.

But without a villain...

“I’m sorry you didn’t get casted.” Scooting closer, he wraps Shirabu in a one-armed hug. “How about we stay home on play night and watch anime? They’re still streaming _Megalo Box_.”

“I got the lead.”

Yahaba blinks, furrowing his brow. “What was that?”

Shirabu shoves a paper in his face. “I got the lead role.”

He snatches the paper from him. “Wow. That’s...” Yahaba searches for the right word. It’s unexpected. It’s something Yahaba never would have predicted considering the chaotic energy Shirabu wielded as a villain, as if he possessed a button that could take away everything you love in the world with just one touch.

It’s a step up in his acting career as well, but looking at the miserable set to Shirabu’s shoulders, Yahaba gets the feeling he shouldn’t congratulate him.

Shirabu runs his hand through his hair. It’s a habit he picked up from acting, and one Yahaba hopes he never outgrows. “I’m going to resign the part.”

“Why?” Picking up the papers, Yahaba scans through them to find what could be so horrible as to make Shirabu quit.

Shirabu takes the paper from Yahaba’s hand. Clearing his throat, he reads, “‘I love you. From thine head to thine sole, thou art a masterpiece.’“ His voice falls flat and stiff. Tension lines his back, and he hunches forward, his shoulders creeping up toward his ears.

“Okay.” Yahaba chews his lip, trying to think of something positive. “Why don’t you try acting it out for real this time?”

“That was for real.” He lets the paper fall to the floor. “The tone sucks.” He glares vehemently at the script. “The lines are forced and pathetic.”

Yahaba agrees, but saying that might get him punched in the mouth. Instead, he asks, “How’d they cast you for this?”

“They need someone who can monologue.”

Yahaba glances down at the script again. It opens with random minor characters, eventually unfolding into a love story built up during a time of war and bloodshed. It’s not one of their better plays, but if Shirabu could get the rambling love confession down, Yahaba thinks it might be a successful turn out. Or, at least, not a terrible failure.

His gaze drifts to the ice cream tub lying empty at Shirabu’s feet. Not a good sign. It wasn’t abnormal for Shirabu to need ice cream after a long night of rehearsing, but for him to have emptied it already... he must have been going at it for days now with no improvement.

“Okay.” Yahaba stands, pulling Shirabu to stand with him. “Right. We can make this work. Let’s roleplay.” It’s a tactic he started when Shirabu got casted in his first musical and floundered with the concept of singing and acting at the same time. Desperately, he hopes it won’t fail them now.

Shirabu raises a doubtful eyebrow, but he complies, picking up his script. Giving it a quick once over, he hands it to Yahaba to read from.

“Who’s the love interest?” he asks.

“Nametsu.”

“Nice choice. Okay. I am ready when you are.”

Shirabu closes his eyes. He holds out a hand towards Yahaba, but instead of a romantic gesture, it looks more like he’s reciting Shakespeare with an invisible skull in his hand. “‘Thine eyes art like fireflies. How they shine. They illuminate a candle within my heart, and how I wish it would guide thou back to me, like a beacon in a storm’—If you don’t stop laughing, I will kick your pathetic ass through a window, I fricken swear.”

“Not laughing.” Yahaba holds up his hands, struggling to hold back his laughter. “That was... good,” he forces out.

“This sucks. I quit.” Shirabu tries to walk past him, but Yahaba grabs his arms.

“No, let’s try again. Please? You just need to, uh, loosen up. C’mon, breathe. In.” Yahaba inhales deeply, waiting until Shirabu reluctantly does so, too. “And out.” He exhales. “Feel better?”

Shirabu glares. “No.” Frustration radiates off him in waves. He never did have patience for doing things he wasn’t inherently good at.

“Loosen up more.” Yahaba shakes him, and Shirabu smacks his hands away. “It’s just you and me, alright? Two dudes reciting love confessions to each other, two feet apart because we’re not gay.”

“You’re bisexual.”

“But I’m not gay.” Yahaba winks. It wins the slightest reaction from Shirabu, not quite a smile, but a fragment of the tension leaving his face.

“I’ll start us off. Just take it easy,” Yahaba says. “You’re always playin’ such serious roles; this is your chance to relax and laugh and stuff. Love is like that.”

“Like that,” Shirabu repeats.

Yahaba shrugs, his lips curling into a smile. “There’s no wrong way to love. Just be yourself and pretend like you’re talking to me.”

“Bold of you to assume I like you.”

“Hey!” Yahaba points at the script. “That’s my line.” Shirabu rolls his eyes.

Chuckling, Yahaba puts on his best female voice and reads, “‘Oh, thy words are-”

“Stop.” Shirabu clamps a hand over Yahaba’s mouth. “Don’t ever use that voice again.”

Yahaba pushes his hand away. “Come on. I think that was pretty good. I was goin’ for a southern belle.”

Shirabu deadpans. “You achieved southern hell.”

“_Fine_.” He tries to find his spot on the script again. “Let’s see. Ah. ‘Thy words drip with honey, but I trust them not. I am course and unrefined. I am the shrew that is despised,’” he reads. “‘Good is not within me. Deep in thine heart, thou know thou hate me.’” His tongue fumbles over the strange words, but Shirabu’s eyes light up.

“Hate you?” he asks, stepping closer. “I hate whoever told you something so foolish. There is no good in you because you are filled with greatness. How can you call yourself a shrew when you have the touch of an angel?” Shirabu takes Yahaba’s hand.

“Uh.” Yahaba scans through the scene, but Shirabu’s speech isn’t there. With his free hand, he awkwardly tries to flip to the next page.

“I saw what you did.”

“Did not,” Yahaba says on instinct.

“‘You treated the soldier,’” Shirabu continues, and Yahaba realizes he’s still in character. “’That was the moment I loved you first, and since then I have lost count.” His face softens. He looks almost peaceful, like when he falls asleep on the couch during movie night, but fire blazes in his eyes. “’You’re only a shrew in how you hide yourself from the world.’”

Frantically, Yahaba flips through the scenes, spilling papers on the floor. Catching the tail end of what he prays is the right line, he reads, “’Thou know nothing.’” He frowns. His character is a tsundere. He should have just suggested that Shirabu and Nametsu trade roles.

Before he can voice this, Shirabu let’s go of his hand, cupping his cheek. “The world lied to you. They can’t handle your charm, your sass, your terrible sense of humor.” His hand slides up, running through Yahaba’s hair. “And you believed them when they said those things are bad. But life isn’t black and white.”

Letting Yahaba go, he turns, as if addressing an audience that is hiding beneath the dirty laundry of their dorm room. “Even if it were”—his voice rises, the flat and empty tone from before long since forgotten—“’I would tear apart the continents. I would divide the sea for you and create there a gray place in this black and white world where you can be yourself.” He meets Yahaba’s gaze. “You’re my light, Yahaba. You’re my beacon. My candle. You don’t merely light my way home. You _are_ my home.”

“Damn,” Yahaba whispers. He tears his gaze away from Shirabu to check the script, but his gaze drifts back to him anyway, captivated. Weakly, he mumbles, “Wasn’t this supposed to be archaic language?”

Stepping closer, Shirabu drops down on one knee, and Yahaba’s heart skips a beat. “‘I belong to thee,’” he recites. Lifting Yahaba’s hand, he kisses his fingers. “’Will thou be mine?’”

Yahaba stares down at him, throat dry. The acting feels a lot more real than he’d been anticipating. He doesn’t remember dropping the script, but the papers lie scattered across the floor, leaving him without a leg to stand on. “I don’t know what to say.”

Shrugging, Shirabu drops his hand and stands up. “I changed some of the words. I’ll have to memorize it more.”

“Some” feels like an understatement, but Yahaba can only nod. His head feels foggy. Bending down to collect the papers, he almost feels like he should warn Nametsu what she’s getting herself into. Another part of him wishes he were the one on stage instead. Flipping through the script, Yahaba finds only patchwork of Shirabu’s speech, as if he’d taken all the best parts of the play and combined them.

Standing in front of the mirror, Shirabu rubs his neck. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue to examine his throat, all of the grace and passion from before completely gone.

“How did you do that?” Yahaba asks. In the mirror’s reflection, he watches Shirabu meet his gaze for a brief moment.

Moving to the door, he shrugs. “I got inspired, I guess.”

“By what?”

Shirabu turns. He captures Yahaba’s gaze, eyes intense, and Yahaba struggles to breathe. His lips part like he’s going to answer, but then he shakes his head. “Don’t know. C’mon.” Shirabu opens the door. “Let’s get some ice cream.”

Chest warm, Yahaba walks besides him, close enough to brush their hands together.


End file.
